


Magic Fingers

by ladypigswagon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Job, Fingering, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Massage, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Spa au, businessman!peter, masseur!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles flexes his fingers and rolls his shoulder, trying to loosen the knots in them. Irony of ironies being that his job is to massage the knots out of other people. Well it’s not his only job; he’s a fully-fledged magical beautician, got the certificate and everything.  Said certificate is hanging on the wall in an obnoxious gold, gilt frame that Lydia bought.  Because she loves him and wants him to have nice things, hence why she was in charge of decorating instead of Stiles when he decided to open a little, high street spa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic Fingers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cocoslash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoslash/gifts).



> For Cocoslash who complied this [gif set](http://cocoslash.tumblr.com/post/110990861784/hmm-someones-prepared)
> 
> I promised a spa au so here it is.

Stiles flexes his fingers and rolls his shoulder, trying to loosen the knots in them. Irony of ironies being that his job is to massage the knots out of other people. Well it’s not his only job; he’s a fully-fledged magical beautician, got the certificate and everything. Said certificate is hanging on the wall in an obnoxious gold, gilt frame that Lydia bought. Because she loves him and wants him to have nice things, hence why she was in charge of decorating instead of Stiles when he decided to open a little, high street spa.

Stiles last appointment of the day is scheduled to arrive in fifteen minutes, giving him some time to clear away the nail polish and manicure kit from Eleanor, the local succubus and Stiles regular. She comes in every week for a manicure and to tell Stiles about her latest sexual exploits, a constant reminder to Stiles that he is not getting any. Eleanor, bless her soul, has offered to relieve the stress but Stiles has made it a rule not to sleep with clients. Especially regular ones.

Stiles lays out fresh tissue paper on the massage table, replaces the towels with fresh ones and lights a few special wolfsbane candles. Their soft scent fills the room, creating the calm atmosphere that Stiles was going for. Flicking through the CD’s next to the stereo, he selects the most soothing and puts it on.

The shop bell tinkles. Stiles checks in the floor length mirror next to the sink that he has no stray nail polish on his face or clothes before going to greet his customer. An assistant made the appointment so Stiles has no clue who to expect, except that it’s a man and a werewolf.

It certainly did not expect the guy to be hot. About as tall as Stiles with dark hair and deep blue eyes. Judging from the expensive suit, the guy must work in business or corporate or something equally well paid. He had an assistant make his appointment after all. The guy smiles, well it’s more of a smirk in Stiles opinion. Something hungry and calculated. Stiles goes behind the counter to check his appointment book and sees the name Peter Hale penciled in.

“Mr. Hale?” Stiles asks, whiskey eyes flicking up to observe Peter’s blue ones.

“Yes,” Peter replies, tilting his head as he survey Stiles. Stiles is starting to feel like a piece of meat.

“My name is Stiles, please come this way,” Stiles says. He leads Peter into the beauty room before he continues. “Please disrobe and get onto the table, you can leave your underwear on or off, it’ll be beneath a towel regardless. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water please,” Peter says, taking off his suit jacket to reveal broad shoulders straining beneath an lilac silk shirt. Stiles goes to get the glass of water before he does something stupid like jump Peter. In the small kitchenette, Stiles calms himself down, thinking of the awkward time he saw Coach Finstock naked. That certainly destroys his libido.

  
When Stiles returns, Peter is stretched out on the massage table tapping something into his phone, towel barely covering his naked crotch. Stiles composes himself quickly before striding over. He hands the water to Peter and takes his phone.

“This massage is designed to relax you,” Stiles says, holding a hand up to silence Peter’s protests, “Work is not relaxing. Now please roll over.”

Peter narrows his eyes but says nothing. He does as he’s told, towel slipping off to reveal a tight ass. Stiles looks to the ceiling and sends a brief pray toward whichever deity may be listening before carefully draping the towel back over Peter’s naked ass. Stiles places the phone on the shelf of nail polish, then bends down to the cupboards below to get the massage oil. He rubs a little into his hands; it’s jasmine scent wafting around the room. Stiles closes his eyes to centre himself, tapping into his magic. It responds eagerly, flowing through his veins until it reaches his palms. It mingles with the oil, changing the color from pale green to deep purple. When Stiles opens his eyes, the once whiskey color is gone, replaced by bright electric mauve.

Stiles walks to the massage table, magic alive and tingling. He flexes his fingers before placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He can sense the knots rather than feel them at this point, the largest at the base of Peter’s neck, between the right shoulder blade and neck tendon. Stiles digs in and the reaction is instant. Peter moans, low and guttural. Stiles avoids thinking about what Peter sounds like in bed. He begins to massage the knot, unraveling it with a wily combination of skill and magic. He places his palm on the back of Peter’s neck, creating light pressure with his thumb on one side and four fingers on the other. Slowly, Stiles pulls his hand toward the back of the neck, squeezing his fingers and thumb together around the muscles.

“How does someone so magically gifted?” Peter asks, a little breathless, “End up as a masseur in a tiny little spa in Beacon Hills.”

“Some sparks are drawn to emissary work,” Stiles replies, focusing on the knot in Peter’s left shoulder, “Others prefer medicine or being a spirit guide. This was my skill. Admittedly a little unusual but I’m good at it. Had to take a beauty course as well though, that’s where about 80% of my money comes from.”

Peter groans in response, claws digging into the table. This knot is particularly tricky, refusing to unravel. Stiles applies a little more pressure, his pupils are eclipsed by the mauve now. The knot succumbs. Peter whimpers slightly.

“That one was a bit of a bitch,” Stiles mutters. Peter chuckles in agreement. Stiles uses slow, even strokes with the palms of his hands over Peter’s shoulders, gentle but forceful touches to remove the remaining irritants. He moves on to Peter’s lower back, rubbing softly. His thumbs dig in where the knots are the most prominent. Stiles place on hand on top of the other, fingers pointing away from the spine. Using his body weight, he pushes down slowly, pressing the heels of his hands into the muscle as if pushing it away from the spine. Stiles rocks his hand back and forth. Peter retracts his claws but groans in pleasure.

  
Stiles moves onto Peter’s hands. His fingers are long and broad. Stiles remains professional and so doesn’t think about Peter’s right hand wrapped around Stiles cock or any kind of fingering activity. Using both of Stiles hands, he takes Peter’s and place his thumbs on top. Stiles applies pressure to the meaty muscles in Peter’s palm with his finger pads and slowly pulls down. He does the same to each finger, careful to avoid popping the knuckles. Then repeats the process on the left hand.

Next is feet. Stiles rubs a little more oil into his hands, taking Peter’s left foot in his hands, his thumbs on the bottom. Stiles squeezes and slides his hands from the ball to the heel. He circles his thumbs up and down the sole. From this angle Stiles can see Peter’s cock, thick and uncut. It’s fattening, responding to Stiles touches. It’s not uncommon, Stiles has had several embarrassed clients, trying to hide how much Stiles affect them. Stiles is excellent at brushing off the embarrassment or just pretends not to notice.

Stiles starts on Peter’s calves and thighs, remaining absolutely professional and refusing to enter what Stiles has dubbed the danger zone. The danger zone being anywhere in the vicinity of Peter’s dick. Stiles refuses to give into temptation, considering that Peter’s erection probably has nothing to do with attraction and more to do with the combination of magic and legendary massage skills. Well maybe not legendary but hey, Stiles is pretty damn good.

“You know,” Peter says, sounding calm and somewhat blissed, “This might have to become a regular thing.”

“I have packages for those who want to do this regularly,” Stiles replies, unraveling the last knot in Peter’s calf. It’s fairly simple, practically comes undone from a simple touch. “Right you’re all done.”

Stiles goes to the sink to wash the sticky oil from his fingers.

“No happy ending?” Peter jokes, sitting up, towel barely concealing his obvious erection. Stiles wipes his hands on a lavender hand towel, turning to face Peter with his eyebrow raised. Allison dubbed it the smarm brow and has repeatedly told him it makes him look like an asshole.

“Not that kind of masseur,” Stiles responds. Peter smirks and sniffs the air.

“Your arousal begs to differ,” Peter says silkily, running his tongue along his teeth and eyes focused on Stiles crotch.

“I don’t sleep with clients,” Stiles says, standing his ground. Peter tilts his head, looking at Stiles from underneath his eyelashes. Stiles wants to but he has rules. Well guidelines more than actual rules but he’s pretty sure fucking his client in his place of work is high on the list of inappropriate business practices.

“Come on Stiles,” Peter says, voice deep and arousing, “Let me persuade you. It’s been said I’m a very considerate lover. I’d be gentle with you, take my time. Probably fuck you on my fingers until you’re begging me to fuck you properly.”

Stiles swallows nervously. Peter’s voice is thick with desire, his blue eyes burning with lust. Stiles is hard, his dick leaking precum in his boxers and he knows Peter can smell it. Stiles wants, wants so bad but like his morals. Peter is stroking himself, watching Stiles internal struggle.

“You’d look good on your knees, pretty pink lips wrapped around me cock,” Peter says, “Do you want to suck me? I know you do. Perhaps you’d prefer to be bent over this table. Bet I could make you come just from my cock. Do you like it rough Stiles? Do you want to be manhandled?”

Stiles has had enough. He marches over and engulfs Peter’s cock in the hot, satin softness of his mouth. Peter throws his head back, moaning with pleasure. Generously coating Peter’s cock in spit, Stiles bobs his head, swirling his tongue around the head. Peter threads his hand through Stiles hair, tugging roughly.

“Such a good boy, a bit faster. There we go. Knew your mouth would be perfect for this.”

They continue like this for a while before Peter pulls Stiles off. Peter manhandles Stiles until Stiles is bent over the massage table, pants and boxers around his ankles. Peter squeezes Stiles’ ass with both hands, sighing contently. A finger enters Stiles hole, grazing his prostate. Stiles gasps. He can sense Peter’s grin. The finger becomes more insistent, more demanding. Stiles whines each time is prostate is grazed because it is simply not enough.

“Fuck me Peter please,” Stiles, pants, forehead resting against the soft padding of the table. His cock feels hot and heavy between his thighs.

“I like you begging,” Peter murmurs into Stiles ear, “Do it again.”

“Fuck me,” Stiles begs, “Fuck me, fill me up, fucking ruin me. Please.”

“So demanding,” Peter whispers against Stiles skin before biting a mark into Stiles neck. “Your skin bruises so nicely.”

“Peter,” Stiles whines, pushing back against the fingers. Peter complies, replacing fingers with his cock, establishing a slow, lazy rhythm. Stiles revels in the feeling of fullness. Peter relishes in the way Stiles arches into his thrusts. Bursts of pleasure dance along Stiles spine, enhanced by the way Peter nuzzles and nips at his shoulder.

“Faster,” Stiles gasps. “Make me feel it.”

Peter growls, thrusts becoming more powerful and precise. Biting kisses are pressed into Stiles arching neck, a hand sliding up to catch at his throat, pressing enough to feel the way Stiles breathes shudder and the desperate moans being torn from Stiles throat. The other hand grips Stiles cock, jerking him off in time with the thrusts. Stiles whimpers and Peter growls. The air is heady with the scent of sex and jasmine. Stiles comes first, spilling over Peter’s hand and clenching around Peter’s cock, which results in Peter coming and filling Stiles.

Peter pulls out slowly. Cum drips down Stiles thighs, making him feel dirty and used. It’s a perfect feeling. Peter turns Stiles over, pressing flush against him. His fingers gently press against Stiles lips. Stiles licks the cum from them, realizing it’s a mix of Peter’s and his own.

“Good boy,” Peter purrs. Stiles slumps against him, feeling thoroughly fucked.

“Lets take this back to my apartment where I can ruin you properly,” Peter suggests and Stiles can’t help but agree.


End file.
